GAME
by MerlinForLife
Summary: Arthur is dreaming about something that he would like to do with the future Queen of Camelot. The dream takes time in the modern world and this time Gwen is the master and Arthur the servant,they're eighteen. Contains: Teasings and adult contents.


**This is just my first M Arwen story. Hope you enjoy :) **

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN MERLIN, BECAUSE I WOULD BE MARRIED TO BRADLEY JAMES BY NOW ;D MERLIN BELONGS TO BBC :)**

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He couldn't remember when this game started. This game of heated whispers and soft smirks and oh, so slick tongues. He thinks it started when she came to him, eyeing him with curiosity and interest and everything innocent as he lay on the ground with quickly dulling eyes and an even quicker slowing heartbeat. When she had whispered through soft lips that she would save him in exchange for his body, his loyalty, his servitude, with something that glittered in her eyes that he would later learn was amusement, he had agreed fully.

But, then again, there was always something under his eighteen year old eyes couldn't see then. That something was later confirmed when she had brought him to her mansion, the many hallways and doors and expensive things making his already dizzy head spin.

"This is where you live?" he had asked once she had laid him in one of the many beds, the plush mattress under him making it harder and harder and harder to stay conscious.

"Yes," she had replied, power and pleasure and pride stirring in her eyes. She had then injected a needle attached to a bag of clear liquid inside his veins with such precision that it made him wonder if she had done this before.

"But, is your family going to be okay with me?" he had replied, the liquid coursing through his blood making his head clearer; his heart better.

She faltered then, slim fingers coming to rest on his arms; teeth being gritted together. He had then looked at her, his blue eyes gleaming in worry and confusion and wonder. What he had seen then-and would see instances of it later in his life-was pain, sorrow, and regret glistening in her brown eyes. He had reached out a hand full of comfort to her but she had smacked it away with a flick of her wrist, and he vaguely wondered if the noise it made wasn't just her heart breaking.

"It's fine," she had muttered, and the broken sound of her voice was resounding and bouncing and bouncing and resounding off his soul, making him want to console her all the more.

"But-" he had started, struggling and struggling and struggling with all his might to sit up.

"It's fine!" she had exclaimed, cutting him off and turning away from him, fists clenched and shaking.

She had then turned toward him and the change in attitude-to which he later called a mask-was so sudden, he blinked his eyes as if that would take away the image of her cruel smirk; her malicious eyes.

"What a servant you are, making your master mad," she had said, a chuckle rising up her chest and coming to bubble from her mouth; the sound of it demented and sad and lonely and furious.

She had then climbed on top of him, hands coming to rest on either side of his face; knees coming to rest on either side of his thighs. She had then trailed her nails down his face and cupped his cheeks, lowering her face and letting her minty breath fan against his lips.

"You should retaliate by making your master feel better," she had whispered and brought her lips down on his shocked ones, his face turning redder and redder and redder in response. She had then broke the kiss and tilted her head with a leer, evaluating his reaction with inquisitive eyes.

Maybe then was when it started. Or, perhaps it started when it was her eighteen birthday and she was sitting in a chair, fingers curled around her chin; elbows resting on the large expanse of the table. He and the other servants had carried a cake, lavished with icing and candy and other confections that made his mouth water, laying it in front of her with practiced hands.

"Happy Birthday to you," they had sung, while she had stared at them with apathy, lazily blowing out the candles once they finished.

She had then flicked her hand, signaling them to go while curling her finger for him to stay. He had obediently gone next to her side, cutting a piece of cake and laying it in front of her, standing stick straight once he was done. She had then ignored her fork and dipped her finger deeper and deeper and deeper into the slice of cake, pulling it out and swirling her tongue around the appendage with boredom.

He had then slightly turned to the look at her, the soft sound of the fabric of his suit brushing against each other made her look at him. He had found himself drawn to her eyes, looking in them and past the mask of indifference to see the pain she was trying so desperately, urgently, frantically, to hide. The servants, having had worked with her parents, had told him that they were very ill. And, because of that, she was forced to grow up to quickly while she took care of her weak parents. But, then they had died on her tenth birthday and the servants said she hasn't enjoyed her birthday ever since.

Knowing that, he had unknowingly looked at her with compassion, his eyebrows scrunching up in sadness. She had then jolted at his look, her scrutinizing eyes registering that she was, sympathized, pitied, looked down on. She had stood up abruptly, clenching the front of his shirt and looking at him with livid eyes.

"How dare you pity me," she had said, voice angry and furious and pained, while his eyes had widened, shock painted across his features.

"I-I'm n-not pitying you," he had stuttered in surprise, eyelids blinking furiously.

"Yes, you are!" she had screamed, hand coming to swing against his cheek in a slap. He had stood there, silently, obediently, submissively, as he took slap after slap after slap. After all, he was a mere servant.

"You must find me weak," she had suddenly mumbled, letting go of his shirt and letting her arms hang limply, numbly, lifelessly, against her sides, "You must find my flaws disgusting."

He had then knelled, grabbing her hands with his bigger ones.

"I do not find your weaknesses disgusting. I live just for you, young mistress, no matter how you are," he had whispered, brushing his lips against her knuckles, "Even if I have to pick up and put back together the broken pieces of yourself. I will do it, no matter how many times."

She had then looked back with sad eyes, scrunched eyebrows, and a twisted mouth. She had then squeezed his hands, the warmth, the comfort, the reassurance, in his palms had made tears spring in her eyes and she had looked like she had wanted to hug him. But, she had ripped her hand from his grasp, head bowing and her brown curls covering her face. She had then looked up, and the mask was on, brutal and vindictive. She had grabbed the collar of his suit, dragging him up and throwing him to lie on his back on the table.

"Young mistress?" he had questioned, trying to get up but was harshly pushed back down on the table by her hand.

"You have patronized me," she had said, voice thick with calm anger, "And for that, you shall be punished."

She had unbuttoned his jacket and shirt, coming to straddle and grind on his hips, raking her nails against his exposed chest. She had then dipped her hand in the neglected cake, scooping out a chuck of it, dragging and spreading and caressing it all over his neck and chest, a gasp breaking out of his suddenly dry lips. She had slowly leaned towards his neck, taking a long, silky, heated, drag of her tongue against the column of his neck, then leaning back and licking off the icing that had gathered at the corners of her mouth. A chuckle had escaped from her lips as she her fingers danced across the waistband of his pants.

"Happy Birthday to me."

Yes, this game could have started then. Or, maybe it had started some time later. He didn't know. All he knew was that he was standing by a tub, his very naked master lounging in the many bubbles skimming the surface. She had her leg out of the tub, toes pointed at the puddle forming below her foot, and he loosely wondered why such an appendage could be so appealing. She slowly brought her head up and lazily looked towards him.

"Are you enjoying your bath, My Lady?" he said, polite smile on his lips.

"Yes, but I am done soaking," she said, smirk playing on her lips, "Wash me."

He sighed, wondering when this game would stop. But, he kneeled nonetheless, grabbing the sponge and lathering it with soap.

"I would think My Lady would be old enough to wash herself," he mumbled, but he was right; eighteen years old is old enough to wash yourself.

She hummed in reply, leisurely moving her hand in the water. She then wriggled her foot that was outside of the tub, signaling for him to wash it, watching with amused eyes as he obediently moved to her leg. He began to scrub at her foot, ignoring the way her skin shimmered because of the water and ignoring the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips. She slightly recoiled her foot away from his hand, laughter bubbling from her lips.

"Don't scrub so hard; it tickles," she said, coy smile stretching her mouth.

He almost scoffed at this; he knew very well that her feet weren't sensitive. But, like the fateful servant that he was, he lightened the pressure. And, as he scrubbed, working his way up to her knee, he wondered when she had learned the ways of seduction, of flirting. How she learned to flirt by proclaiming of fake sensitiveness, leaving the mind to wonder what else was as sensitive as her feet. Of how she relaxed her muscles so he could really feel how soft her skin was, how flawless it was.

He blinked out of his thoughts, noticing how his hands had slowed their work on her calves, how they relished in the silkiness of her leg, how his composure was slipping. He then looked at her and could see thinly veiled hilarity in her eyes, a smirk on her lips. He frowned.

One point goes to her.

He sped up his actions, finishing her leg and moving to the next one, quickly cleaning her arms, stomach, and back. He sat back on his heels to gesture he was done.

"You missed a few spots," she drawled, signaling to her thighs, breasts, and nether regions with a sluggish wave of her hand, though she couldn't hide the amusement that shined in her eyes.

"It is not my fault that My Lady gets so dirty throughout the day like a small child," he replied, giving a small smirk.

One point goes to him.

She frowned but she quickly replaced it with a leer.

"Yes, and it is your job to wash away the day's filth," she said, voice brimming with silent laughter, "And, you're not doing a very good job at it."

One point goes to her.

He frowned and bowed his head in mock apology.

"I apologize for my sloppy work," he said through clenched teeth, moving to her back.

He began to massage her shoulders, lingering there before making his way to her chest. He closed his eyes as he began to knead her breast, her whispery moans making his composure wither and crumble, making it collapse into dust. And, as he felt the suppleness of her breasts, the hardness of her nipples, he wondered if losing this game was all that awful, or perhaps, it was just the tightness of his pants that was talking. He didn't know. But, the idea of losing this game didn't seem that bad.

He opened his eyes to look at her and instead of seeing eyes glazed with pleasure, he saw eyes gleaming with mirth and amusement.

One point goes to her.

He then shook his head to clear out the idea of losing. No, he couldn't afford to lose; he couldn't let her have the satisfaction of knowing she had complete control over him. He suddenly leaned down to kiss her and her lips responded almost immediately to his, almost as if she expected him to do that. And, when he felt the smile still on her lips, he realized that she did.

One more point goes to her.

He then slipped his tongue in her mouth and he couldn't help but compare it to a hot cavern, moist and pleasurable and everything sinful. And, when her own wet muscle stroked and stroked and stroked against his', he groaned into her mouth.

Another point goes to her.

He groaned again, not just because she ran her tongue across his teeth but because of his losing streak. Losing was not an option. He then threaded his fingers through her hair and pressed his lips harder against hers, kissing her more feverishly, licking at her tongue more frantically. He brushed his tongue at the roof of her mouth and he felt her shiver, heard her moan, before she pushed him and broke the kiss, a thread of crystalline saliva connected to their parted lips. But, even as she turned her head away from him, he could see her hazy eyes, her flushed cheeks, and hear her shaky breaths and he knew it was caused by him.

One point goes to him.

But, he could hear his own shaky breaths, could feel the heat coiling in his stomach, could see the straining lump in his pants, and knew it was caused by her.

One point goes to her.

She looked at him and he could still see the pleasure-and oh, how it mocked and tempted him-in her eyes. But, there was also laughter in her eyes, and he knew she had something up her sleeve. Suddenly, she pulled him in the tub, knocking him over so his back leaned against the other side of the tub. He looked at her in surprise and he moved to get out but he moaned as he felt his legs give away with pleasure. She had her foot between his legs and was moving it in circular motions, grinding her heal on him. She smirked.

One more point goes to her.

"You shouldn't try to overpower your master like that," she said with a tilt of her head, "Do I have to remind you who is in power?"

He looked at her with glazed eyes, his composure completely gone. Her smirk widened.

Another point goes to her.

"I guess not."

She swiveled her ankle and quickened her pace, her grin widening with each moan and grunt and groan coming from his lips. This feeling of tightness, this feeling of heat pooling at his stomach; he knew this feeling all too well. He was close and with shaking thighs and a writhing body, he looked at her and he could tell she knew too. With a leer so big he thought it would split her face, she harshly dug her heal into his clothed member, and with a strong wave of pleasure coursing through his body, he came, breath hitched, body tense, eyes clenched, and her name on his lips.

And, as his rode out his orgasm, he knew he had lost.

…

Arthur suddenly woke up with the sound of the curtains being pussed back by Merlin. He then noticed what a weird dream that was but he might try it with Guinevere. But, first he needed a cold bath.

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**A.N. Oh God, I felt so disgusting for writing this. I really did not want to write this. Though I did like the scenes before she started touching his junk with her foot, since I like to write kissing and teasing scenes, but as I went on I was hitting my head against the keyboard. Now you might ask why I wrote this. It's because its to help my writing skills and I love ARWEN. Since I never wrote anything mature(and probably never will in the future) it was a challenge for me and my writing skills. So it was just to help strengthen my skills, because if you broaden the planes on what you write, your writing will get better. Like this will help me on intense sexual tension in between my characters, and trust me it will be better than this crap, since I will actually look forward to them having moments like these since they are characters that I actually like. **

**Anyway, I'm glad I got this challenge out of the way because I'm not going to be writing anything(well not this far, just teasing like kissing and touches to the thigh etc.) like this ever again. I'm gonna go get some mind soap. **

**R&R **


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